As I stand in the kitchen getting a glass of water, Mum hands me a pink envelope with my name and address printed on the front.
“I just found this out in the porch for you. It was under the mat. The postman must have delivered it earlier.”
I look down at it, confused, mainly wondering how it evaded Dad’s postal inspection. I presume it’s another wedding invite from a university friend. I am starting to receive wedding invites as often as bills these days, and the requests that I buy a happy couple some new crockery are worse than the impersonal charges from the phone company.
“Are you OK to turn all the lights off before you head up? Dad and I are going to bed,” Mum says.
“Yep, that’s fine. Night, Mum.”
I wait until she has reached the top of the staircase before opening the envelope.
It is not a wedding invite. Or a bill. It is a red card decorated with a cartoon bear holding a heart-shaped balloon. The flowery text reads “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Who is sending me a Valentine’s Card?
It must be from Jade?
She must be apologizing for everything?
Wanting me back?
My heart beats rapidly.
I anxiously open it, expecting to see a long, handwritten message inside explaining everything.
“Dear Josh, Happy Valentine’s Day, from your secret admirer, xx.”
I read it again. I know the handwriting. It’s not Jade’s. It’s not even a secret admirer’s. It’s Mum’s.
If there is anything more tragic than not receiving a Valentine’s card, it is receiving one from your mum. At the age of twenty-eight.
I grab a whole tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream from the freezer and head to my room. As I reach the landing, I hear Mum and Dad lock their bedroom door and I immediately grab the remote, to switch the TV on and turn the volume right up. At least when I lived here before I was oblivious to what the sound of their bedroom door shutting meant.
I decide there and then that Valentine’s Day is the worst day ever invented in the history of mankind. If single life isn’t bad enough for the rest of the year—when you must eat two meals by yourself to take advantage of offers, or you have to take a homeless person to the cinema to use your 2-4-1 code—then February 14th truly takes the biscuit. The heart-shaped, candy-coated biscuit.
This time last year, Jade and I were spending Valentine’s Day at the Bristol Lido, snuggling up in the hot tub, enjoying a couples’ massage. Now, I lie on my single bed, in my parents’ house, crying while watching a 1990s rom-com next to Jeremy the Rabbit, who is defecating all over my teenage Bristol City duvet set. The coin loves Phish Food and Hugh Grant and doesn’t care that I feel sick immediately afterward.
It is ironic that I’m spending Valentine’s with a rampant rabbit when I’m not getting any. The most action I’ve had since Jade’s leaving me was at the optician’s, when I struggled to decide whether the image was clearer using my right or left eye, and the optometrist wouldn’t let me use my coin to decide. He then leaned in too close, lingered, and whispered sweet nothings (or instructions) into my ear.
It’s just as well that he said I have twenty-twenty vision, as the box television at the foot of my bed is vintage now, with its small screen the size of a mobile phone screen. As the film draws to an end and Hugh Grant inevitably gets the girl, I flick through the channels to see what else can upset me. A series of Valentine’s-themed reality shows. Skip. More rom-coms. Skip. After rejecting hundreds of stations, I land on one of the adult channels, where some semi-naked, overly tanned woman is writhing around and inviting me to call her. She’s wearing matching red underwear, with the tiniest tartan skirt worn around her waist, barely covering her tiny thong. Her ensemble is completed by thigh-high stockings and high heels. Her straight, dark hair flows down her back.
I’ve not sunk to this level, have I?
“Hi, guys, so the phone line has just become available. Select option number one to get horny with me, guys. Why don’t you be my next caller?” the model asks with a suggestive wink.
I twist the coin through my fingers before launching it into the air.
Heads.
I tentatively reach for the phone and dial in the number.
“Press one to speak to the sexy girl on screen, or press the hash key if you just want to listen in,” a pre-recorded voice says.
What am I doing?
“Unfortunately, that girl is currently busy with another caller. Remember, you can press the hash key to return to the main menu or press the star key to switch to another girl.”
I look at the screen of my phone. I’ve already been on the call for over ninety seconds. All of a sudden, I hear a man’s voice.
“Oh yes, baby, I would fuck you so hard, I would destroy you.”
Is this what women want?
“Yes, I love it rough, baby.”
Apparently so.
“I’d grab your throat and choke you while I’m fucking you.”
Is this what George does with Jade?
“Yes and I’d love you to spit on my face,” the woman instructs him.
Should I have been spitting on her? Is that where I went wrong?
“Yeah. I want to turn you over and fuck you,” he grunts, sounding like he’s going to have a heart attack. He coughs and splutters so much down the phone, I can almost feel the phlegm landing on my face.
Jeremy looks at me disapprovingly. I think he preferred watching Hugh Grant.
There’s a lengthy delay between the call and the screen, so her actions don’t match with her words. It’s like watching a film with subtitles where you know everything that’s about to happen. Fifteen seconds after announcing it, she removes her bra, climbs onto the office table, crouches down on all fours, and spanks her bum.
The phone line goes silent.
“It is your lucky day. In just a moment you will be talking live with one of our sexy babes . . .”
Crap. What do I say? How do I follow that?
“Hello, baby, what’s your name?”
“Jo . . . hn.” I decide to give a fake name just in case someone else I know is listening.
“What did you say, baby?”
“John,” I reply hesitantly.
She sits back down on the table and makes an exasperated face as she throws her arms into the air. I think she’s taken an instant dislike to me, but then I realize with the delay she’s just unhappy with the last caller for hanging up so abruptly.
“Oh hey, John, have we spoken before?” She speaks in a strong Essex accent, but it’s hard to hear what she’s saying. For a premium phone line the connection is very poor.
“Nope.” My voice cracks up. This feels wrong.
“What can I do for you this evening, then?”
“Umm, I just fancied a chat,” I say quietly so that my parents can’t hear, not that they are concerned about me hearing their own antics.
“Oh yeah, you want a naughty chat. Are you nice and hard for me there?”
“Ummm.”
“Am I turning you on?”
“Ummmm.”
She begins to mime lewd actions with her hands as she tells me what she would do. I cover Jeremy’s ears.
“Oh John, fuck me, John. Yes, just like that.” She moans in a most exaggerated fashion, which sounds more like she is having her leg amputated than pleasuring herself.
The phone line breaks up, and the call is disconnected. I see her huff, annoyed at someone else cutting her off in mid-flow. I don’t want to think how much my next phone bill is going to be.
I decide I will stick to talking to Jeremy instead.
I take a tissue out of the pack of Kleenex in my drawer and use it to wipe away my tears.